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I glance at my canvas, reluctant to leave it.
“Never mind.” Lita shakes her head. “You’re in the zone, so don’t break it. We’ll bring lunch to you. You like turkey or roast beef?”
“Turkey, please.” I hop down and pull out a twenty-dollar bill.
“Nah, forget it. Seeing how it’s your first day and all, it’ll be my treat.”
“Really? That’s so nice of you. Thanks.”
She smirks. “Don’t get used to it. We’ll be back in forty-five.”
After they’re gone, I grab a bottle of water from my rollaway and sip it as I stand back and look at what’s taking shape on my easel. A complicated riot of emotions tangle through me as I follow the lines and strokes that fill the canvas. It’s not bad.
Hell, it might even be pretty good.
Looking at what I’ve created, I’m excited and hopeful.
I am happy for the first time in a very long time, not only because I am finally reunited with my art, but because for the past few weeks—the past four months—I’ve felt more alive than I have for most of my life.
There’s only one part of me that’s still missing, and in the solitude of the empty studio, my heart aches for the piece of me I’ve left behind in Pennsylvania.
Retrieving the new cell phone Nick bought me from out of my purse, I dial the prison infirmary and ask if my mom could have permission to take my call. I’ve already updated her doctors and public defender with my changed phone number, but I haven’t spoken to my mother in several days.
They put me through this time, informing me that she’s awake, but is due to get another dose of painkillers in about ten minutes. Her accident a couple of weeks ago left her with a pierced lung and multiple fractures, the worst of them being her broken femur.
At her age, recovery is expected to take time, but I can’t curb my worry when I hear how small her voice sounds when
she finally comes on the line.
“Avery, honey? Oh, I’m so happy you called. Are you back in town again?”
“No, Momma. I’m in New York.” I don’t miss her small exhale, or the disappointment in that wordless response. “I’ve been thinking about you. How are you feeling today?”
“Tired, mostly. They keep giving me pills and shots at all hours of the night. I wish they’d release me so I can go back home.”
I wince, recognizing with more than a little regret that to my mother, home is the single-windowed cell she’s been living in for these past nine years.
“The doctors are just trying to make you better,” I tell her gently. “You got hurt pretty bad in that fall. It’s going to take time for you to heal.”
Talking about her accident makes the specter of my stepbrother’s threats crowd in on me like a thunderhead. I can’t prove that he had anything to do with her fall, but my gut feels certain.
“Do you remember anything about that day, Mom? Do you remember what happened before you fell?”
“Nothing I haven’t already told you, honey. I was coming out of the laundry after my morning shift. I remember it was crowded near the stairs. Everything happened very quickly. I must’ve lost my balance somehow.”
She goes quiet, and I know she can sense that I am pensive.
She knows me too well, even though we’ve been separated for nearly a decade.
She knows my heart better than anyone.
She’s the one person who knows all of my secrets . . . just as I know hers.
Then again, maybe there is one other person who knows them too.
“Have you had any visitors lately, Momma? Anyone you haven’t mentioned to me?”
Her silence nearly kills me. I can feel her wariness. Her worry.
